Transfusion | by Vince Ruston
Fresh from hospital beds,
sights of starry-eyed needles, bags of blood
dissolve. I soothe exhaustion, watch
ants crawling
………………..‘cross pavement.
Curled under the lemon trees, hands
linen napkins on my knees, I watch
butterflies the colour of milk dip
tongues in the mouths of
………………..flowers.
Not quite concealed by
white rhododendrons: a
congealment of poppies; eyeful of
transfusions, spilling, contaminating
………………..pale lilies.
They are too harsh, too
alive to be here. I need
………………..softness.
I lunge to tear the trespassers, roots and
veins from soil, dash them
………………..beneath soles.
………………..Left them lying,
a tangled wreck.
________________________
Vince Ruston (21) is a poet and editor based in Melbourne, Austrailia. “They only wear black, and once tried to like black coffee, but discovered they didn’t hate life that much. They edit for Voiceworks magazine, intern at The Lifted Brow. They Tweet @VinceRuston.” — Vince
